


A Place to be Free

by Piscaria



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: M/M, Post-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:05:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/pseuds/Piscaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Esca needs a place to be free. Marcus wants to give it to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place to be Free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deepsix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepsix/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Deepsix! I hope you enjoy the story!
> 
> Many thanks to my sweet ursurculus for all of his help and encouragement! <3

When the wind has begun to scatter Guern’s ashes and the pyre’s fierce blaze has died to tiny licks of flame, Marcus finally gives in to the pain and lowers himself gingerly to the ground where he’s stood sentinel these past hours. Beside him, Esca gives him a sidelong look, then kneels beside him.

Marcus can see the dark circles beneath Esca’s eyes, the slight tremor of fatigue in his hand as he lifts it, settling slim-fingered on Marcus’s broad thigh, where the wool is dark and thick with drying blood.

"Let me see your wound,” Esca says, and Marcus looks up at him sharply, surprised.

"You don’t have to,” he starts, because Esca is free now, not even formally in Marcus’s service as a _libenter_.

Esca’s gaze is steel. “Show me.”

Marcus’s fingers are unusually clumsy as they find the waistband of his braccae, bringing them down. He attributes it to cold and blood loss.

Esca’s fingers probe at the inflamed flesh where the scabs have broken. It hurts, and Marcus grits his teeth, though Esca keeps the touch mercifully brief, his bow-string calloused fingertips skimming over the wound, where angry lines of infection spread out from the raised and broken scars from the surgeon’s sutures,

His face is impassive, but Marcus catches a glimpse of something in his eyes that might be annoyance or concern.

"Wait here,” Esca says, standing. He lopes into the trees, graceful as a deer, despite his fatigue.

Marcus sighs, feeling suddenly bereft. Always, it seems, he is watching Esca leave. Soon enough, he supposes, it will be for the last time.

Around him, the surviving legionaries are building a fire, speaking quietly among themselves. At first, Marcus thinks he is too far to make out their words, but when a gust of wind carries a snippet of conversation to him, he realizes they aren’t speaking Latin at all. He imagines learning this harsh tongue, living in these wild lands, and an involuntary shiver passes through him. How can they stand it?

One legionary stands apart from the group, staring solemnly down at the ash-flecked pool of molten gold, all that remained of the eagle they’d all risked so much for. He is shorter than Marcus, but broadly built, belly straining beneath his loose-strapped armour and shoulders wide beneath his fringed and checked wool cloak, held closed by a bronze and jeweled pin. He turns from the pyre in time to catch Marcus watching him, and their gazes lock for a moment.

The legionary frowns. His hand rises instinctively to form the sign of the bull, a trick for warding off evil that Marcus recognizes from the Rites of Mithras. Confused, Marcus nods in greeting, then taps a finger to his forehead to mark himself as an Initiate for good measure. A sheepish expression crosses the legionary’s face, and he returns the nod. After a moment of hesitation, he crosses to sit beside Marcus, though not so close as Esca was crouching.

"You look so much like your father that I thought I saw a ghost sitting here,” the legionary says, by way of explanation.

Marcus bows his head for a moment. “If my father’s spirit haunted the earth,” he said, “it would be south of here, in the glenn where he fell.” _The Place of Heroes_ he hears Esca say again in his mind, and his hands clench for a moment before he wills them to relax. “But let’s speak not of ghosts. The Eagle has been reclaimed. Its spirit will guide our dead to the underworld.”

The legionary offers a hand to Marcus. “Well spoken. My name is Quintus Sibelius Gaius,” he says. “But I’m known as Canaul.” As they shake, he catches sight of Marcus’s thigh, and whistles through his teeth. “That is no fresh wound you carry.”

Marcus smiles tightly. “An old battle wound. The journey re-opened it.”

"Men have lost their legs from injuries such as that. It’s a credit that you fought so well with it.”

"I’d have born worse to re-claim the Eagle,” Marcus says.

Canual nods solemnly. “It has pained us to think of the Eagle in the hands of the Seal People. My heart sits more easily, knowing that it’s free.”

"Yet you didn’t return for it before now,” Marcus says, trying to keep his voice neutral. “You could have returned to Rome and gotten reinforcements.”

“It was too dangerous,” Canaul says, shaking his head. “You’ve seen what it is, to be hunted like a fox. We few who remained hid ourselves away and prayed the Britons would forget about us.”

"Yet you fought today.” Marcus says.

A bitter smile twists Canaul’s mouth. “Your slave was very persuasive.” A wistful expression crosses his face, and he adds, “Besides, Lucius was with him.”

It takes Marcus a moment to remember Guern’s given name, he is so focused on Canaul’s first words. Frowning, he says, “Esca is not my slave. He is free.”

"You are lucky to have him in your service, then,” Canaul says. “He spoke as eloquently of honor as any Centurion might.”

"Esca is the most honorable man I know,” Marcus says, surprising himself with the words.

The snap of a twig draws their attention, and they turn to see Esca approaching, clutching a handful of leaves in one hand, a cup of steaming water in the other. Marcus blushes and wonders how much Esca overheard. Yet Esca’s face shows no sign that he has listened.

Giving a brusque nod to Canaul, Esca kneels on the ground beside Marcus and sets the steaming bowl carefully on the ground between them. From his pouch, he produces a scrap of linen and dampens it. Marcus hisses as Esca cleans the wound, then presses the leaves to it, binding them tightly with more scalding linen.

"Comfrey,” he says, to Marcus’s questioning gaze. “It will ease the pain and fight infection.” He shakes his head, looking down at the bandages. “It is amazing that you lasted so long.”

"Thanks to Mithras,” Marcus says automatically.

Esca snorts. “Thanks to your stubborn head, more likely.”

* * *

They eat around the fire that night, more field rat, but cooked this time. Afterwards, the legionaries speak amongst themselves, voices quiet and grave. They’ve switched to British again. Marcus strains to find something Roman in their faces by the flickering firelight, but sees only their beards, their long, tangled hair, the clothing of the Britons worn beneath their old armour. Part of him wants to go to them, to ask them to speak of his father. Yet in the firelight, hearing their voices speaking Esca’s harsh tongue, he feels strangely reticent to do so. It would be intruding, he thinks, and he has asked so much of them already. Instead, he searches the darkness and finds Esca standing in the edge of the firelight, staring up at the sky.

"This, too, feels like intrusion. Yet strangely, Esca is more familiar than these Roman soldiers. Marcus limps over to him. Esca does not look at him, yet Marcus has no doubt that his keen hunter’s ears heard his approach.

"What is it you see?” Marcus asks.

Esca’s lips draw into a thin line. For a moment, Marcus thinks that he’s overstepped his bounds, that Esca will not answer. Then Esca sighs. “Freedom,” he says softly, not looking at Marcus.

Marcus swallows. Reaching into the darkness between him, he takes Esca’s hand. Esca looks up sharply, but doesn’t pull away. His hand is cold, and small enough that Marcus’s fingers completely engulf it.

"I owe a debt of honor to you now,” Marcus says. “I hope you will let me repay it.”

"Perhaps,” is all Esca says. He pulls his hand from Marcus’s, stalks away into the trees.

Yet later that night when Esca rolls out his bedroll, it is close enough to touch, though that may be only for the chill in the air. Marcus feels Esca’s steady warmth beside him and sighs, falling into sleep.

* * *

Marcus half expects Esca to leave the day they have his manumission papers drawn up at the magistrate’s office. Esca suffers through the ceremony in stone-faced silence, and scowls when the officials announce his legal Roman name, with Marcus’s patronym. They leave the office and pause in the street outside. Marcus rests a hand on Esca’s elbow, feeling that some kind of words are necessary, though from Esca’s face, he’s not sure whether he should offer congratulations or apology for the Roman custom.

“What will you do now?” he finally settles on, because that’s all he really wants to know.

Esca hesitates. Runs a hand through his hair. Stares at the busy street for a moment, a veiled expression in his eyes. Then, all at once, he shakes himself like a dog, and turns to Marcus.

“Let’s get a drink,” he says.

Marcus beams at him, and squeezes his elbow before releasing it regretfully. “We should celebrate,” he agrees, and drags Esca into the nearest tavern.

That night, they stumble home to his uncle’s villa loose-limbed and full of mirth, stopping often to rest against the nearest wall or each other. Marcus keeps laughing. He’s not sure why. Esca, for his part, is smiling more than Marcus has ever seen. His arm is draped over Marcus’s shoulder, the fingers stroking absently through the thin linen of Marcus’s tunic. He stumbles over a stone in the street and sprawls against Marcus’s side, and from there, it’s only logical to wrap an arm around his waist and keep him close.

Esca’s head lolls against Marcus’s shoulder, and for a moment, Marcus worries that he might fall asleep here, in the middle of the road, halfway to the villa.

“Esca?” he manages around his thick tongue, jostling him a bit.

Esca’s eyes blink open. It takes a moment for his eyes to focus on Marcus’s face, but then he smiles, wide and bright. “Marcus.”

His face is close, his eyes as gray as storm clouds. If he were anyone else, Marcus thinks, he might kiss him. But he can’t imagine taking such a liberty with Esca. Instead, he only squeezes him closer and murmurs, “We need to keep walking.”

Esca nods wisely, and extricates himself from Marcus’s grip. He takes a step forward, and it might have been dignified, if he didn’t trip and spill forward, dropping to the ground in a loose-limbed puddle. “Oops,” he chuckles, grinning up at Marcus.

Marcus helps him up, and Esca doesn’t protest when he wraps his arms around him again.

They manage to make it back to the villa, though they make such noise opening the door that Stephanos steps out in his night clothes, scowling at them with disapproval. Marcus waves at him cheerfully before steering Esca into their room.

Esca pulls free of Marcus’s arm and starts to spread his pallet on the floor. Marcus stops him with a hand to his wrist. “You’re free, my friend,” he reminds him. “Tonight you take the bed.”

Esca stands blinking, looking between the bed and the pallet as though the notion is too complex for him to grasp in his alcohol-drenched state. But when Marcus gives him a small shove to the bed, he sits easily enough, and consents to Marcus pulling off his boots.

“I hate Romans,” Esca murmurs as Marcus manouvers him onto his back and pivots his legs out.

A chill runs through Marcus. “I know.”

Esca’s fingers grip his wrist. His eyes are startlingly clear when he looks up at Marcus. “But I don’t hate you,” he says, nearly in a whisper. His eyes drift shut. “I don’t,” he adds again, then wriggles, fish-like, to the edge of the bed, making space for Marcus. “Come to bed, Marcus.”

Marcus looks at Esca’s loose limbs and inviting smile and doesn’t trust himself. Instead, he takes Esca’s pallet, settling across the door. It’s a far sight better than any of the places they slept in north of the wall, he thinks as he stretches out, tries to get comfortable.

Esca is asleep before Marcus has the blankets arranged, snoring quietly into the darkness.

Marcus looks up at the unfamiliar angle of his bed and sighs, for no reason that he can imagine. There he falls asleep.

* * *

Esca wants to leave.

He never says so directly, but Marcus can read it in the restless fidget of his hand as he toys with his knife at dinner, in the curve of his neck as he steps outside to watch the stars at night. E

sca, Marcus thinks, is like the wild horses that roam the northern hills, like the wolves that stalk the forest. He was never meant to live cooped up in the villa of an elderly Roman citizen, learning to play latrinculi and to like the taste of watered wine. Esca needs a place to be free, Marcus thinks.

Since the night of the manumission, they’ve shared Marcus’s bed, lying chastely beside each other. Marcus wants to reach, to pull Esca into the curve of his arms and to press his lips to the tender skin behind Esca’s ear. But he doesn’t dare. He’d never want to dishonor Esca, neither can he risk driving him away.

Each night, Esca shifts restlessly for longer and longer periods before falling into a troubled sleep. In the morning, he wakes well before Marcus and disappears into the woods for hours on end to hunt. Sometimes he walks to town and any day now, Marcus supposes, he will come to announce that he is leaving, or worse, he will simply disappear. His stomach clenches at the thought of losing Esca.

As a reward for liberating the Eagle, the army has offered Marcus a grant of land, as he might have earned had he served until retirement. Marcus has been arranging the purchase of a small estate in Etruria, near to the farm where he was raised. All he needs to do is sign the papers. But Marcus has hesitated these last two months.

He can't imagine Esca in Rome, where the vineyards grow thick and olive trees dot the horizon. It feels like mockery, somehow, to think of Esca growing tanned under the Italian sun, highlights in his hair and freckles on his proud nose. It would pain him, Marcus knows, to live amongst his conquerers thus. It pains him enough in the villa. In truth, when he first spoke to the solicitor, Marcus had assumed that Esca would be gone by now. The land was Marcus's way to comfort himself.

Yet as long Esca remains, it is not in Marcus's heart to leave him.

When three months pass and Esca still remains, Marcus goes to speak to the land grant officer in Calleva. When he states his request, the officer looks at him with surprise.

“Are you sure?”

“Isn't there land available here?” Marcus asks.

The officer looks at him as if he is being purposefully obtuse. “Of course,” he responds. “There's nothing but land. Land and fog and rain. And barbarians.”

“Then I'm sure,” Marcus says.

“You have pleased the emperor,” the officer says. “He is happy to gift you with fine lands, near the heart of Rome.”

“I find my heart is here now,” Marcus says, thinking ruefully how true it is.

* * *

When Marcus says he wants to ride into the hills, Esca agrees readily, as Marcus knew he would. They ready the horses and ride into the forest together. Marcus feels a weight lifting off his shoulders. This is how it should be, he thinks. He and Esca, the two of them alone under the sky. Esca must feel it too. He throws his head back, drinking in the breeze. Marcus catches his eye, and Esca breaks into one of his rare, broad smiles.

Trying to look as though he’s not choosing his path deliberately, Marcus follows the officer’s directions, breaking off the road past the fifth mile marker from Calleva and cresting a low hill topped by an oak tree. There, he pulls his horse to a stop, and looks out at the pasture beyond.

Beneath them, a wide, grassy pasture sprawls down to the edge of a twisting stream, crowned by a willow tree on one bank. In the slight breeze, the wild grasses wash back and forth like the tide, an endless whisper of pliant stem.

Looking down at the land beneath the grey sky, so different from the warm fields of Rome, Marcus felt his breath catch in his throat.

"What do you think of this valley?” Marcus asks, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Esca shrugs. “It’s lovely.”

“It’s ours,” Marcus says. “If you want it. This is the land I got for bringing back the Eagle.”

Esca looks at him sharply. A moment passes.

Marcus glances away from him, down to where a gray stone juts like an island from the sea of grass.

Finally, Esca says, “I thought you were looking for land in Etruria.” His voice is wary.

Marcus tells himself that Centurions do not blush. “I find that there is little left for me in Rome,” he says, echoing Esca's own words as they travelled back to the wall.

Esca makes a noncomittal noise. “What will you do here?” he asks.

“I was thinking about farming,” Marcus says.

Esca makes a disbelieving noise in his throat. “Farming? Here?”

“Well, what would you suggest?” Marcus asks, his voice prickling with irritation.

Esca looks out over the field, impassive. “I suppose it will do,” he says at last

* * *

They frame their house from sticks of cedar.

"Cedar for protection,” Esca says, his fingers trailing over the fragrant wood, pale where Marcus has skinned away the bark with patient flicks of his knife. Marcus plants the slender rods deep in the earth, and holds them steady while Esca weaves between them a lattice work of hazel.

"For wisdom,” Esca says.

Marcus watches his fingers, small and quick, darting like trout as he plaits the lattice work that will support their daub walls. Once he loses his grip and a hazel branch springs free. He and Marcus both reach to catch it, their fingers closing over each other and the hard stem. Their eyes meet. Marcus is breathless in the wake of Esca’s smile.

Each spade full of daub over the skeleton of the house feels like a promise, Marcus thinks. They are building something real, the two of them, healing over the mistrust of the past. Marcus doesn’t know yet whether the flesh of their burgeoning friendship will heal angry and jagged as the scar that still pains him as he kneels, or shiny and smooth as a river-worn rock.

Together, they plunge their hands into the cold spring, gasp as the water sluices them clean. They eat bread and cheese beneath the willow tree, looking proudly at the two completed walls of their house. As one, they rise to return to work.

It starts innocently, the spade slipping from Marcus’s hand and splattering the thick daub over Esca’s shoulders and neck. Esca looks up, startled, eyes wide. Marcus is opening his mouth to apologize, when Esca scoops his bare hands into the bucket and lobs a handful of it straight at Marcus, teeth shining as he grins. And then they are laughing, darting and circling each other, their hands darting out to smear each other’s skin. Esca’s quick fingers dart beneath the neckline of his tunic to smear daub over his chest, and Marcus retaliates by tackling him to the ground. And then, all at once, they are rolling together, the game forgotten, hands roaming furiously over each other’s bare skin.

Their dark smudged fingerprints grow streaked, and then fade altogether as they rub their hands clean over each other’s chests. Esca’s breath is hot on his neck as Marcus dips his fingers into the waistband of his braccae, peels them down. They rut together, fast and furious, their fingers bruising each other’s hips.

Afterwards, Esca rises, troubled. He leaves the half-finished house without looking back. Marcus stares down at the white seed splattering the dark daub on his belly, feeling stripped to the bone.

When the mess on his stomach begins to dry, Marcus sighs, and, naked, picks his way through the grass to the stream. He steps into the water and gasps at the chill. It feels as though it’s freezing him to the bone. Marcus endures it as long as he can, letting his skin go numb.

* * *

Shielding his eyes with his hand, Marcus searches the horizon, but finds no trace of Esca. Beneath the cloudy sky, the valley is desolate, the half-finished house alone in the wild grass. From here, it looks a silly, misplaced thing, neither Roman nor entirely Briton. Marcus wonders if he should look for Esca, then reminds himself that Esca is not really his to find. Sighing, he trudges back to the half-finished wall, picks up the spade and bucket.

* * *

Marcus tells himself that Esca might not return. Yet, curiously, he feels no surprise when he walks back to the spring that evening to find Esca there, sitting with his knees hugged to his chest, glaring up at the darkening sky. Marcus washes his hands clean, then moves to sit beside him.

For a long time, they don’t speak. Marcus watches the stream, listening to the gurgling water wash over the stony bed. The air smells of wild lavender.

Marcus looks sidelong at Esca, watching the shadows move across his face. Finally he clears his throat. “If I pushed you too far this afternoon, I’m sorry.”

For the first time, Esca turns to look at him. His lips are tight with anger. “Do you honestly think that you could push me into anything?”

Marcus hesitates. “I . . . I don’t know,” he says honestly.

Esca glares at him. “I’m a free man, Marcus!”

"I know!” Marcus says. “I know you are! But you left! I thought . . .” He trails off, unsure how to finish.

Esca sighs, drooping. “I shouldn’t have,” he admits. He runs a hand through his hair, looks away from Marcus for a long moment. “I used to hate you,” he says quietly. “I used to lie there at night, guarding your door, and thinking that all I wanted to do was gut you in your sleep.”

"I know.”

Their eyes meet. Esca’s face is tense with indecision, longing and self-loathing clearly written across it. Marcus inhales slowly. Reaching out, he tentatively sets a hand on Esca’s shoulder. Esca shudders at the touch, but does not shrug him off.

"I don’t want to farm, Marcus.”

Somewhere in the darkness, a wolf howls.

Marcus swallows. He lets his hand fall from Esca’s shoulder. “I understand.” He shifts, starts to stand, but cool fingers catch his wrist, holding him back.

"Horses,” Esca says.

Marcus turns to look at him.

Esca firms his shoulders, looking up at him fiercely. “We can breed horses,” he says. “This valley is perfect for it.”

Marcus stares in disbelief. “You want to raise horses?”

"There’s good money in it,” Esca says, a touch defensively.

Marcus feels himself starting to smile. “There is,” he agrees.

When Esca leans forward, Marcus dips his head to meet him. Their lips brush together, first tentatively, then more firmly. Esca nips at Marcus’s lip, then pulls back, a sudden smile brightening his expression.

"Besides,” he adds, “you owe a debt of honor to me, Marcus Flavius Aquila.”

Marcus throws his head back and laughs, feeling the worry that’s settled over him like a fog finally begin to disperse. Catching up Esca’s hands, Marcus brushes a kiss over his knuckles, looking into his eyes.

"You will find,” he says seriously, “that I always repay my debts.”

Esca’s eyes sparkle, and he leans in for another kiss, licking filthily into Marcus’s mouth. “I am glad to hear that,” he says throatily, as they pull away, their lips still damp from the kiss.

When he stands, Esca rises with him, and reaches to take his hand. Marcus looks out over the field, imagining horses running beneath the setting sun. This is far from a villa in Etruria, he thinks. But it is home.


End file.
